


Eskel and the Healer

by FallingAfterAlice



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, OC is a blatant reader insert, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-01-31 17:17:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18595846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallingAfterAlice/pseuds/FallingAfterAlice
Summary: Eskel knows he is an intimidating figure by most standards, and he refuses to stay where he's not welcome, even when  injured and in desperate need of stitches. But maybe, things will be different this time...This is mostly shameless smut featuring my favourite witcher, although some plot accidentally crept in to the first two chapters. ;)





	1. Hurt

The witcher swung down from his horse and leaned heavily against my fence, looking into the garden where I was watering the herbs.

That is – I assumed he was the witcher. There surely weren’t many men who could match the description that had been circulating in the village. Dark hair, tall, broad shoulders, and wearing a padded leather jacket striped with red. But what distinguished him most of all was the scar on his cheek, which was striking even from where I stood twenty paces away. It twisted across his right eyebrow and down his cheek, then split into several angry lines over his jaw, one of which pulled his lip upwards in a permanent grimace. With those two sword hilts poking over his shoulder, he was an intimidating figure. This was not the sort of man you’d want to meet alone in a dark forest, and I felt a coil of fear settle in my stomach.

My mind raced as I put down my watering can and straightened to face the stranger. It was plain to me, by the way he stood and moved, that this man was injured and exhausted, and probably in no fit state to do anything other than recover. But in my experience, those skilled in violence were often all too eager to use it, and even in his injured state, there would be little I could do to stop a trained fighter from taking what he wanted. I resolved to play along, and hoped that he didn’t demand anything I didn’t want to give.

“Are you Charlotte? The healer?” the witcher asked from across the fence. His voice was deep and gruff, and with a start, I realised his eyes were amber, almost golden. The expression in them was guarded.

“I am,” I said. “You’re the witcher who came to deal with the archgriffin?”

The witcher gave a nod. “I’m Eskel.” He shifted his weight slightly, holding on to the fence, and grimaced. “Archgriffin is dead. Raked me with a claw, though - can you stitch a wound?”

His question surprised me: it was a long way to ride from Raven’s Peak, where the archgriffin’s nest had been, with a wound deep enough to need stitching. The witcher had probably lost a lot of blood, and would be feeling dizzy. It was a wonder that he hadn’t collapsed on the way.

“Sure. Come into my cottage, and I’ll take a look,” I told him.

The witcher leaned heavily on the fence as he made his way to the gate, and though he tried to hide it, pain flickered across his face as he turned rather stiffly into my garden.

\----

Five minutes later, the witcher sat at my table, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea as I prepared the medical supplies I would need.

Offering my patients tea was an old healer’s trick, which served two invaluable purposes. Those who are injured or sick generally need to take in fluids – in the witcher’s case, it would help his body start to replenish the blood he had lost. But perhaps more importantly, I have yet to meet anyone who doesn’t relax in the presence of a hot drink. The witcher was no exception: though still reserved, he had lost the wary, guarded look in his eyes.

Truth be told, I knew I also needed to relax before I could treat the witcher’s injury. I rarely had strangers visit my small cottage – most of my patients were from the village, and were well known to me – and especially not armed men who were known for their skill at fighting. It didn’t help that the witcher’s two swords were still strapped to his back, where he could easily reach them, and where they were always in the corner of my vision.

Yet according to those who had overheard his conversation with the alderman, the witcher had been polite and respectful, if reserved; clearly a man of few words. Not only that, but I reminded myself that he had been injured in the course of defending our village, and had come to me for help. I did my best to push my fear aside, and focused instead on the witcher’s words.

“There’s not much to say, really – I mistimed a dodge, his claw ripped a hole in my armor, and ripped a hole in me, too.” Eskel’s voice was steady, as if he were describing the weather, not a painful injury. “Normally I’d take care of it myself, but it’s in the middle of my back. I can’t see it or reach it properly, and it feels like it’s deep enough to need stitches.”

“Alright,” I said, depositing a pile of clean bandages onto the table. “Let me have a look at the wound. Can you take your armor and shirt off?” I filled a pail with warm water from the pot over the fire, and moved to stand behind the witcher. Eskel unbuckled the strap holding the swords to his back, wincing as he bent forwards to lean them carefully against one leg of the table.

The back of his armored leather jacket was almost split in two by a long tear, the edges of which had soaked through with blood, staining the bright red a dark rusty crimson. With a visible effort, he managed to push the jacket back over one shoulder, then dropped his arm and sighed in frustration. “I can’t twist or move properly without excruciating pain. I think you’re going to have to help me.”

Though this request was unsurprising, it was concerning, a sign that the injury had cut deeply into the witcher’s muscle. Pulling carefully, I helped him remove his jacket, revealing additional layers of leather armor and clothing. As he slowly unbuckled and untied the various straps and knots, I lifted it off him piece by piece. Soon, he was clad only in a loose linen shirt, shredded into several pieces at the back, and stuck to his skin with tacky, half-dried blood.

“This might hurt,” I warned him, then peeled the shirt from his back, piece by piece. Though his shoulders tensed, the witcher didn’t flinch - the only sign of pain a muttered “Fuck,” and a sharp inhale of air.

He remained silent as I washed the blood from his back with a damp cloth, then cleaned the wound with the strongest alcohol I had on hand, though it must have stung like hell. It was a long, straight gash that started just above his left hip, and stretched a full hand and a half across his spine towards his right shoulder.

“How’s it look?” he asked, once I had finished.

“I’ve seen worse,” I said, honestly. “It’s deep, but it’s clean and straight, and should heal well if properly cared for. You were right, though – it is going to need stitches. A lot of them. I’ll get you some vodka.”

\---

Before I bandaged the cleaned and stitched wound, Eskel asked that I search the pockets of his jacket for a small stoppered green vial, then directed me to rub the potion over his wound. “It will help speed up the healing process,” he explained.

I gagged at the foul smell that reached my nose when I pulled out the little cork. I’ve always had a sharp nose – my younger sister used to joke that I should have moved to Toussaint to become a wine taster – and I was horrified to recognise the pungent scents of nightshade, fool’s parsley, and something else that might have been hemlock. Any _one_ of those ingredients would be lethal in the bloodstream. There was no way that I could, in good conscience, rub this onto an open wound.

When I said as much out loud, the witcher turned his head to look at me over his shoulder, his eyes strikingly feline with their vertical pupils and amber irises.

“It would kill an ordinary human, sure, but I’m not one,” he said. “Remember I’m a witcher. A mutant.”

I looked down at the vial in my hands again, his words echoing in my mind. _A mutant._ I had forgotten, for a brief moment, that this wasn’t just another farmer sat in front of me.

Then my eyes fell on the two swords propped against the leg of the table. The further sharp reminder of the witcher’s violent trade sent another stab of fear into my guts, and a sickening image flashed through my mind. Even with him injured, and having downed most of a bottle of vodka to help with the stitches, I knew that I didn’t stand a chance against the witcher, should he want to hurt me. My stomach lurched at the thought. He would draw his sword before I could make it to the door, and…

But what was going to happen? Sure, he was scarred and dangerous, a skilled fighter – but the witcher had put his own life on the line to help our village in a small, unimportant, far-flung corner of Kaedwen. If there was anything to be afraid of in this world, it was not him. I took a deep breath and buried my fear as best I could, forcing a neutral expression to my face.

But it was too late. The witcher had seen the fear in my eyes, in my shaky smile; perhaps he had even been able to hear my heart begin to race. He said nothing, though his mouth tightened, and the guarded expression returned to his eyes.

I flushed, feeling suddenly guilty, though my heart continued to hammer in my throat. “I’m sorry,” I said, uselessly. Then, not knowing what else to say to make things right, I fell silent.

I used a cloth to dab the grey-green lotion onto the wound, breathing in through my mouth to avoid the nauseating smell. It must have burnt as it sunk in; the witcher’s knuckles were white on the near-empty vodka bottle each time the cloth touched his back. I wanted to say something, to apologise, to explain; but the silence between us was heavy, as heavy as an archgriffin’s corpse, and I found I could not open my mouth.

“Thanks for the stitches,” Eskel said gruffly, once I had bandaged the wound. He tipped the bottle to his mouth and downed the last of the vodka. “And thanks for the painkiller.”

“You should try to sleep, now,” I told him. “At least stay the night, until the vodka and the worst of the pain wear off. I’ll make the bed for you.”

Eskel glanced around the small room, taking in the sparse furniture, and shook his head. “You won’t have anywhere to sleep.”

“Take the bed,” I said, firmly. “I’ll sleep in front of the fire. I have another blanket, and I’m not injured.”

He looked at me, his amber eyes wary as he deliberated, then nodded. “Fine. Thanks.”

I pulled a clean sheet and spare blanket from the cupboard, and racked my brain for something to say as I laid them out on the bed. I wanted desperately to clear the air, to not leave the witcher thinking that I was just another frightened, uneducated peasant.

_Say something, dammit._

_Say you’re not afraid of him, not really, especially now that you’ve stitched him, seen him in pain._

_Say you’ve had to treat swordsmen before, and none have been as calm and restrained as he has._

_Tell him he can stay as long as he wants._

But my mouth felt as though it had been glued shut.

“There’s a spare shirt in my saddlebags,” the witcher said, as I finished preparing the bed. He stood, rolled his shoulders experimentally, then grimaced and sat down again. “And I don’t think I can unsaddle Scorpion like this. Would you…”

Grateful, I jumped on the opportunity to escape the tense atmosphere in the cottage. “I’ll do it. And I’m sure your horse could do with some water and some hay – I’ll see to it.”

“Thanks,” he said, but I was already halfway out the door.

By the time I returned half an hour later with the shirt from his saddlebags, he was asleep, lying on his side in front of the fireplace.

“Obstinate men,” I muttered, noting that he had left me the bed. I tidied up as quietly as I could, and then, because dusk was falling outside, because I felt drained and empty, and because my appetite had disappeared, I crawled into bed and fell asleep, too.

I woke up near midnight, bright moonlight shining into my face through the window. The cottage was silent and peaceful. I rolled over and had almost drifted back to sleep when I realised I should have been able to hear the witcher’s breathing from where he lay in front of the fireplace.

Suddenly wide awake, I sat up, my stomach sinking. There was no sign of the witcher, his armor or his swords; only the blanket he had used lay on the hearth, neatly folded. A glance out the window confirmed that he had taken his horse, too.

I sat with my head in my hands and stared at the empty fireplace for a long time, with a strange hollowness in the pit of my stomach that felt a lot like guilt, or regret. My thoughts spiralled and spiralled, endlessly replaying the events of the afternoon, yet always circling back to the same inescapable conclusions.

The witcher was no stranger to lukewarm receptions. His scarred visage and twin swords would intimidate most people who crossed his path.

He had come to me for help, for healing; he had been exhausted and in pain. Yet it pained me to admit that I, too, had made him feel unwelcome with my fear.

And then? He had left in the middle of the night, not even wanting to sleep until morning where he felt he was not welcome.

The idea gnawed uncomfortably at my conscience, and I wanted, desperately, to set things right, but it was too late.

I knew I would never see the witcher again.


	2. Healing

I was wrong. The witcher returned three days later.

I was in the garden again, on my knees, weeding the vegetable patch when I heard the sounds of a rider approaching up the path from the valley. I stood, brushing the worst of the dirt from my hands, and went to the fence to see who it was. My stomach somersaulted nervously as I recognised the distinctive red armor, and realised he had to be coming to see _me_ , as mine was the last cottage in this direction.

He pulled his horse up in front of the gate and dismounted smoothly, twisting his torso in a way that should have been incredibly painful for someone with a back wound. The upright posture, the effortless movement, the way he reached a hand up to pat his horse’s neck – it was clear that the wound was no longer a great source of pain. _It’s been only three days,_ I thought in astonishment, as he turned to me.

My eyes were immediately drawn to the scar that dominated his face; I had forgotten just how striking it was. But the grey exhaustion that had lined his face was gone, and his amber, feline eyes were bright and alert, though the expression in them was, as before, guarded.

“Eskel,” I said, letting surprise and pleasure tinge my voice. “This is unexpected. How’s the wound?”

The witcher nodded to me. “It’s a lot better, actually. I won’t stay long – I just need someone to take the stitches out, if you can spare the time.”

 _He’s so concerned about overstaying his welcome,_ I thought, with a twinge of guilt. I also doubted the stitches would be ready to come out just yet, but I could at least take a look before I refused. This might be my only opportunity to apologise, to set things right, and I really didn’t want to mess it up.

“Sure,” I said instead, with a smile. “Come inside.”

“Great,” Eskel said, and turned to unsaddle his horse. He didn’t smile back.

 ---

“I’ve got some hot water ready – do you want tea?” I offered as the witcher ducked his head to enter the door of my cottage.

Eskel paused, then nodded, seeing that I had already set out two mugs. “Yes, please.” He glanced around, taking in the single small room. I had tidied a little since his last visit, and the medical supplies were now neatly sorted and stacked in baskets in the corner, though the small preparation table was still piled high with various fresh and dried herbs.

Whilst I busied myself fetching scissors, tweezers, and bandages, he began removing his armor, piece by piece. I watched out of the corner of my eye and though he lifted several items over his head and had to twist to reach some of the buckles, he moved smoothly, and I could see no signs of tension or flinches of pain. _Maybe he really has healed that quickly,_ I wondered, as I turned away to search through a basket for a bandage of the right size.

I turned around again just in time to see the witcher pull his undershirt over his head, the motion swift and smooth as with his armor. Although most of his stomach was covered by bandages, the muscles in his chest _moved_ under his skin as he raised his hands over his head, tugging the shirt up over his broad and no-less-muscular shoulders. My mouth dried up at the sight, and I suddenly realised that although I had spent a lot of time staring at the witcher’s bare back during his last visit, I had been so focused on his wound that I hadn’t even noticed his well-muscled physique.

Beneath a smattering of short dark hair, his chest was patterned with scars of all shapes and sizes. I felt a sudden strange impulse to reach out and trace my fingers along what looked like a long-healed sword cut, which ran across his chest to his shoulder. Below the bandages, a dark trail of hair ran the short distance from his navel and disappeared tantalisingly into the top of his breeches.

Eskel tossed his shirt carelessly into the corner, seemingly oblivious to the blush that suddenly stained my traitorous cheeks. Embarrassed, I felt relieved that he didn’t seem to notice the effect that he’d had.

(Of course, I should have realised that a witcher would be more observant. He later admitted that it was that blush, a rosy pink that he found oh-so-appealing, that had given him the first twinge of hope that things might work out as they eventually did.)

As I pulled over a stool to sit behind his chair, I pushed all thoughts of broad, muscular shoulders from my mind and focused on removing the bandage. Soon, I had a clear view of the wound that I had stitched so carefully three days ago.

I couldn’t help it: I gasped.

“That’s incredible,” I said, reverently.

I had never, and still have never, seen a wound heal so quickly. New skin, shiny and pink, had already formed under the stitches. Though I had sewn it shut but three days ago, the scar looked to be at least a month old, well on the way to completely healed.

The witcher turned halfway towards me, his amber eyes wary again as he took in my incredulous expression.

“I’m a witcher,” he reminded me, his tone carefully neutral. “It’s the mutations. I heal fast.”

His eyes flickered to where his swords sat propped against the wall, and I knew that he was remembering his last visit.

“I know,” I said, keeping my eyes on his face. “I’ve heard you heal pretty quickly. But hearing about it is different to seeing it for yourself.”

Eskel said nothing, scrutinising me, searching for the fear that had been so pervasive three days ago. After a moment, I broke the silence. “Turn around, and I’ll take out the stitches.”

In the end, the whole process only took a few minutes. The stitches came out cleanly and easily, and though he bled a little in the process, the only sign of his discomfort was a clenched jaw. Even accounting for the witcher’s fast healing, I was pleased to see that I had done a good job with the stitches. There would be scar, but a pale, silvery scar that would be barely visible, unlike the deep, angry ridges on his face.

I finished by disinfecting the mostly-healed wound with a strong alcohol. When I asked him to pass me one of the fresh bandages on the table, Eskel shook his head. “Don’t bother,” he said. “It’ll be fully healed in a day.”

I raised an eyebrow at this, but by now, I had learnt to trust the witcher on this matter. “Alright.” I shrugged. “You know best. I’m all done, then.”

“Thanks,” he said, then stood and started to gather the clothing and armor he had removed earlier.

As I rinsed my hands in the washbucket, I wondered, briefly, whether the witcher had been able to find anywhere to wash over the last few days, then realised he might appreciate the luxury of hot water, too.

“There’s plenty of hot water left over,” I told him. “If you pour some into the bucket in the corner, you can wash yourself.”

Eskel shook his head. “I wasn’t planning to stay that long,” he said, though his eyes lingered on the pot of water heating over the fire with something akin to longing.

“I have to go outside to finish up what I was doing anyway,” I said, though it wasn’t strictly true. “So you might as well.”

Eskel hesitated only briefly before deciding, and the caution in his eyes was replaced by gratitude. “Alright. Thanks.” He filled the bucket with water from the pot over the fire whilst I searched through a cupboard to find him a washcloth and a clean towel.

As I turned back to him, the sight of the bare-chested witcher sitting to unlace his boots inexplicably set butterflies loose in my stomach. I dropped the towel and washcloth onto the table and escaped the cottage, which had suddenly grown several degrees too warm. I didn’t want to be there when he started to unlace his breeches too.

\---

When I re-entered the cottage half an hour later, with a basketful of of bitter spring greens and potatoes from the garden, the witcher was still shirtless. I noticed his feet were bare, too, though he had at least put on his breeches again. I was glad, for I don’t think I could have handled it had I walked in to find him with only a towel wrapped around his waist.

He was seated at the table with his back turned, leafing through one of my books – the herbarium, judging by a sketch I glimpsed on one of the pages. I paused in the doorway and marvelled again at how quickly he had healed: though it was the newest scar on his back, the archgriffin’s mark was fading quickly.

“How’s your back?” I asked, curious.

The witcher put down the herbarium and turned towards me. “Hmm?”

“The wound,” I said, as I dropped the basket next to the door. “You’ve mostly recovered your range of movement, right? Now that the stitches are out – how does it feel?”

“Oh - good,” the witcher said. He frowned slightly, in concentration, and sat up, straightening his spine; experimentally turned his shoulders one way, then the other, then stretched his arms over his head.

Though I had already spent a lot of time staring at his back, and had become rather familiar with the tapestry of scars that covered it, I was riveted by the sight of the muscles moving under his scarred skin as he tested his healed back. It was somehow so masculine, so primal, that it sent a flush to my cheeks again, and I was glad that his back was turned.

“Feels good,” he said, after a moment. He glanced back at me over his shoulder. “The scar still pulls a bit, but that will heal. You did a good job with the stitches. Thanks.”

I smiled, pleased. “You dealt with the archgriffin. Small thanks for a dangerous task.”

Eskel shrugged indifferently and turned his back to me again. “I’m a witcher. It’s what I do,” he said, as he reached for his now-cold mug of tea, to drain the last few mouthfuls.

A nervous weight settled in the pit of my stomach, as I sensed an opportunity in the moment, an opening in the witcher’s words. This was my chance to put things right: my chance to say the things that I _should_ have said last time, had I only been able to think quickly enough.

I took a deep breath, glad that his back was turned, because it made it easier to get the words out. “I’d wager you usually do your job without even half the gratitude it deserves.” Thankfully my voice held steady, carrying clearly in the small cottage. “You put your life on the line for villagers like us all the time, end up with scars like that one, and mostly just ride off with a few measly coins.”

The witcher carefully placed the empty mug back on the table, moving slowly, his back still turned. I realised I now stood almost too close behind him. When had that happened? I couldn’t recall telling my feet to move.

Or telling my tongue to keep moving, for that matter.

“And sometimes, we look at you with fear, forgetting, even if only for a moment, that you’re here to help us, not hurt us.”

The words tumbled out, though I was hardly aware of what I was saying. Something had stirred within me, a warmth deep in my belly, and I felt an inexplicable desire to touch his skin, to trace my fingers along the souvenirs of his profession. My hand reached out of its own volition, paused over his shoulder for a moment, then traced across his warm skin to the tip of the almost-healed scar that I had stitched, halfway down his back.

The witcher stiffened, whether at my touch or my words, I could not tell. “Charlotte…” he said, and though his voice was rough, he did not sound displeased.  I dropped my hand as he shifted on the stool, turning until my legs obstructed him, his thigh pressed against mine.

“I’m sorry about last time,” I said, heart hammering in my chest as I forced myself to meet his eyes. His expression was wary again, his brows drawn together in concern. “I’m sorry that I made you feel unwelcome.”

“People don’t like witchers, and I’ve seen a mirror – I know what I look like, Charlotte,” he said. Eskel sighed and the crease between his brows smoothed, though his amber eyes were sad. “They’re sometimes as scared of me as of the monsters I’m hired to fight. I don’t blame them for it, but I don’t stick around where I’m not welcome.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” I said softly, and it was true. I reached out again and touched a curved half-moon on his chest that had been inflicted by an unknown set of fangs. “You have so many scars. From protecting people like me. How could I be afraid of you?”

Eskel raised a hand. I thought he would catch my hand in his, pull it away from his chest, but instead it hovered for a moment, then he reached up to cup my jaw, tracing his thumb along my chin. Though he was seated, his face was almost level with my own. His feline gaze was heavy, and I could see he was considering something, considering _me_. Finally, he seemed to come to a decision because he pulled my chin towards him with gentle fingers, and leant forward, slowly, to press his lips against mine.

His mouth was warm and soft, and sent a shiver down my spine, adding to the warmth pooling in my belly. I kissed him back, readily, realising that I had wanted this since I had woken three nights ago to find him already gone. He tasted of peppermint tea, and beneath the clean scent of freshly washed skin there was something musky, like campfire smoke.

Eskel pulled back, a small lopsided smile tugging at his lips that I gladly returned. His hand traced over my shoulder and down my back, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake, then landed on the small of my back and tugged me towards him. I let him guide me into his lap, my legs to the side, and then my fingers buried themselves into his dark mop of hair, and I pulled him in for another kiss.

One hand cupped my neck, the thumb on my jaw; his other arm was wrapped around my waist, holding me close. I sighed into his mouth. His scarred lips were the softest thing I had ever kissed. I wanted to abandon myself to the sensation; but I held back, and instead kissed over his scars and along his jaw to that sensitive spot where it joined the neck. “I’m glad you came back,” I said softly into his ear, and kissed his earlobe.

Eskel pulled back, turning his head to look at me. For a moment I was afraid that I had said the wrong thing, then I saw the crinkle of amusement in the corner of his eyes.

“How could I not?” he said, and pressed his lips to my cheek. “I needed a healer to take out the stitches, and you’re not only the most skilled, but the prettiest within at least a week’s ride…”

My cheeks warmed at his compliment, and Eskel’s scarred lip lifted in a smirk. “And so easy to fluster.” He kissed my cheek again. “Pink suits you.”

I giggled, as the blush deepened. I had never, and still have never, been able to control that particular treacherous show of emotion. At least it seemed to be working to my advantage, so I ignored it, and pulled him in for another kiss.

His mouth moved under mine, soft and slow, intoxicating, and all of a sudden, it wasn’t enough. I moved eagerly, desperately, traced my tongue against his lip; and then, finally, his lips parted and his tongue found my mouth, as hungry and determined as mine, and I felt I was drowning and floating, all at the same time, and I still couldn’t get enough.

My hands ran over his shoulders, his back, his arms, learning the feel of his scarred skin. I felt muscles shift under my fingers as the hand on my back moved higher, and his other hand traced from my hip to my knee, then up my side, pausing briefly before moving to cup one of my breasts through my dress. He squeezed it, traced a thumb over the curve, lightly at first and then more firmly, all the while keeping his mouth on mine, now soft and slow again.

Then, frustratingly, he withdrew his hands to my waist and broke the kiss. Eskel pressed his lips to my neck. “Before this goes too much further,” he said into my ear, voice low, “there is one thing I should mention.” I turned my head to look at him, though the thought of what _too much further_ might be sent a thrill through me.

“I’m leaving – soon, and I won’t be back this way for some time. Possibly years. So, if you want… This can’t be…” Eskel trailed off, searching for the right words, though his meaning was plain.

“I know,” I said. “This is just for tonight.” I traced a hand over his shoulder, and flashed a mischievous smile. “So stop talking, and kiss me again.”

The witcher hesitated for a moment, searching my eyes for confirmation of my words. Then, that lopsided smile tugging at his lips, he obeyed, his hand on the back of my neck pulling me towards him.

I realised he had been holding back, too, as he claimed my mouth in a searing kiss that sent a liquid fire through my veins. With a hand on my neck he tilted my head, smoothly deepened the kiss, and coherent thought fled my mind. His tongue plundered my mouth, determined, hungry, and his hands strayed over my body, quickly settling onto my breasts again. He ran his fingers over the curves, squeezed lightly, then broke the kiss to look down at his hands as he started to unlace the bodice of my dress.

I ran my hands over his bare shoulders, savouring the feel of his muscles as he moved, planting soft open-mouthed kisses along his neck, then gently nipped his earlobe. Finally, he pulled the last of the laces free and slipped his hands into the bodice. He ran his fingers over the smooth warm skin, then cupped my breasts in his palms, tracing his thumbs over the nipples. A small moan escaped me. Eskel kissed me, hot, intense, then lowered his head to my chest and kissed the skin there, too, first to one side then the other. He took a nipple into his mouth and sucked it as he ran his thumb over the other one.

“Mhmm,” I sighed, nuzzling into his neck again. My hands trailed down his side, across his stomach, and traced along the top of his breeches. I found the laces, and set to work opening them; he raised his head and caught my lips in another kiss. One hand traced down to my knee, and found the bottom of my skirt; his hand slipped up my leg, caressing my calf and my thigh.

His breeches opened, and I pulled the soft leather back, then slipped a hand inside to free his erection. He was already hard, and when I curled my fingers around him, I could feel he was larger than the others of my experience (few though they were). I ran my thumb over the tip, feeling the droplet of moisture there, and spread it over the velvety skin. Eskel inhaled, sharply; his head dropped to my chest again, and he kissed and sucked the soft flesh, grazing his teeth over a nipple. His hand under my skirt stroked my thigh, then he slipped a finger under the waistband of my knickers, and drew it tantalisingly across the curls at the apex of my legs.

“Too many clothes,” he said, husky, his breath warm on my chest. I kissed him again, then stood, smiling, and pulled my dress over my head. He raised his hips and tugged off his breeches; then, indicating my knickers, “Them too,” so I took them off, kicked them carelessly to the side. The witcher’s gaze was heavy, his feline eyes intense as he drank in my naked form; I reciprocated in kind, biting my lip, my eyes drawn to his proud cock, curving up to stand slightly away from his stomach.

His hands on my waist, he pulled me onto his lap again, this time straddling his legs. I leant down and kissed him, enjoying the feel of his hands on my bare back, on my stomach, on my thighs. His mouth was hot and his tongue was insistent. He reached a hand between us, ran his fingers through my curls again, then lower; traced the folds of skin, long wet by now, and slipped a finger inside. His thumb flicked over my nub, back and forth, and I inhaled sharply, buried my head into his shoulder. I reached for his cock, wrapped my hand around it and started to stroke it, slowly, as he pulled his finger out, added a second, his thumb still moving.

This was going to drive me crazy; I wanted more, I wanted _him_ , inside me, and I wanted it now. I ground my hips against him, into his fingers. “Come on,” I pleaded into his ear, and he chuckled, but acquiesced.

With his hands on my hips, the witcher lifted me up; I reached a hand down, positioned him under me, then let him guide me as I sank, ever so slowly, onto his cock.

Melitele, but he felt good; he was hard and thick, and somehow managed to touch every nerve along the way as he slid home. My eyes fluttered closed and my head fell forward onto his neck.

“Mhmmmm,” I sighed, and I felt rather than heard a rumble of agreement from the witcher’s chest. I tried to lift my hips a little, wanting to move, but his fingers tightened on my hips, preventing me.

“Just… give me a moment,” he said, voice rough, and when I looked at him his eyes were half-closed, his expression strained. “It’s been a while.” He took a ragged breath, and I realised he was trying to keep control.

So I kissed him instead, trailed my lips from his cheek to his neck, and after a moment he pulled back, his grip loosening. “You feel fucking incredible,” he murmured. I started to move, rocking my hips, and with a hand at the back of my head he pulled my mouth down to his, searing, intense.

Tendrils of pleasure curled and and writhed, starting to accumulate deep within me. The witcher’s hands were everywhere, his callused fingers trailing down my back, my thighs, over my stomach. He kissed across my chest again, drew a nipple into his mouth, sucked it, grazed his teeth over it. A breathy moan escaped my throat; and so he did it again, drawing another moan.

Then his hands were on my hips, on my arse, lifting me, adding more friction, more length, to each thrust. I ran my hands over his shoulders, his biceps, delighting in the feel of the muscles as his arms assisted my thighs. With every movement, my clit ground against the rough thatch of hair at the base of his cock, and the friction was delicious. My head dropped to his shoulder as my mind emptied of everything but the building pleasure. There was only Eskel, moving beneath me; his breath warm on my neck, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of my arse, and _him,_ hard and thick inside me. Knowing what it could do to a man, I squeezed my internal muscles with the next thrust, and was rewarded with a low groan from the witcher. I smiled into his neck and did it again, and again, and again. His hands on my hips encouraged me to move faster on top of him.

Then he slid a hand around to my stomach, and down, and his thumb found my clit, rubbed it, back and forth. I gasped, the action unexpected, the sudden rush of pleasure even more so. My fingers dug into his scalp, his back; all of a sudden, I was so much closer to that peak than I had been a moment ago. “Hnnnngh,” I managed to grind out, and Eskel turned his head to capture my lips in one more searing kiss, his tongue tangling with mine, hot and wet. The kiss, his hand on my arse, the feel of him filling me with every thrust: the sensation was overwhelming, and then he flicked his thumb over my clit again, and I saw stars behind my closed eyelids. Both his hands were on my hips now, and he pulled me down onto him once, twice, three times, hard, then stopped, holding me in place. He groaned into my shoulder, and I felt him pulse inside me as he followed me over the edge.

I sighed, sated, and rested my head onto the crook of his neck. After a moment, his grip loosened, and one hand left my hip to stroke my back; my skin was damp, covered in a faint sheen of sweat, though the exertion had been thoroughly worth it.

“Well, that was fun,” I murmured into his neck, then sat back to look at him.

Eskel smiled as he regarded me in turn, a small, lopsided smile that tugged at the unscarred corner of his mouth, and crinkled the corner of his eyes. “I think I’ll come back here every time I need stitches removed.” His fingers at the back of my neck tugged me downwards and he kissed me, slowly, without urgency; his lips were warm and soft, and gentle.


	3. Discovering

It was late afternoon once we had finished cleaning ourselves up. Eskel had been planning to head back along the main road and camp somewhere in the forest below the village, but he agreed readily when I asked him if he wanted to stay the night. He sat at the small table, mending the rips in his clothes and armour with careful stitches, while I peeled the potatoes from the garden to go with our evening meal. We chatted as we worked; though he was by no means talkative, now that Eskel had relaxed somewhat around me, he showed himself to be an engaging storyteller. He told me about his hunt for the archgriffin, how he had tracked it to its nest, and how he had seen, all too late, that it was protecting young, making the beast both desperate and more dangerous. Even the most monstrous of monsters feels a maternal instinct, I suppose.

He was curious as to where I had learnt my medical skills, unusual in a village as small as this one. I told him my whole sorry tale: how I had studied at the academy in Oxenfurt for a year, how I had fallen in love at the tender age of nineteen, and how I had quit my studies to follow the merchant to his home town when he left the city. As it turned out, the man had not been pleased when I arrived at his shop, unannounced, just one week behind him – and his wife had been even less pleased.

“He swore he had never seen me before, and accused me of stealing his ring – the one he gave me to pledge his undying love. They threatened to take me to the guard captain if I didn’t return the ring and leave, immediately. But the captain was the man’s brother – so what else could I do?” I laughed ruefully. “Thankfully, it’s been long enough now that I’ve moved on, but I was very bitter about it for a very long time.”

Eskel raised an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you go back to the academy? Trained medics are in short supply. They would have taken you back.”

I shrugged. “I spent most of my money to follow Stjepan – by the time I found him, the only thing of real value I had left was that ring, which he took. Everything else I then spent on getting as far away from that cursed town as I could. That brought me to Karvale, a couple of villages further down the valley. When I heard that the old healer up here in Torvale had died, it seemed like a sign from Melitele. I’ve been here ever since. But I’m happy here, and I don’t really miss my old life, either.”

We ate by the fire, and washed our supper down with a bottle of Kaedwenian stout. I watched Eskel’s face carefully as he took his first sip of the dark brew, and was not disappointed when he raised his eyebrows in surprise, then looked at the mug with an admiring expression on his face.

“Damn, that’s good.”

“I had the same reaction when I first tried it,” I said, giggling.

Eskel smiled, took another long draught of the drink. “I can’t remember Kaedwenian stout ever tasting so good.”

“They only make this one in small quantities – it’s from a brewery in the next valley over,” I explained. “They don’t export it, so it all stays here, in this corner of Kaedwen. The stuff you can buy in Temeria or in Novigrad – what they call Kaedwenian stout down there – no one here would drink that swill by choice.”

“So you keep the good stuff to yourselves, while you export the bad – I’d do the same,” Eskel said, chuckling.

We sat in companionable silence for a time, savouring the drink as twilight turned to night outside. Soon the cottage was dark (to my eyes, at least), the firelight throwing long, erratic shadows against the walls.

I cast a glance at the witcher. He sat with his elbows on his knees, chin resting in the palm of one hand, staring into the flames. The flickering light turned the scars on his face into dark, twisting gashes, and emphasised the permanent sneer where his lip pulled upwards. Only the pensive look in his eyes kept him from looking entirely menacing.

“Eskel,” I said, softly. Though I was loath to break the silence, the question of his last visit still weighed on my mind.

“Hmm?” The witcher turned his face towards me, chin still on his hand.

“When you left, three days ago. In the middle of the night. I… I think I know what happened, but I’d like to hear it from you. Why did you go?”

He was silent for a long moment, considering his words.

“You were afraid of me, Charlotte,” he said, finally. He sighed, looking into the fire again. “I know you remember that moment when you smelled that potion and really realized what it means, that I’m not quite human, not like you. You looked at me with sheer terror written all over your face. And even before that, you were jumpy, nervous… I made you uncomfortable. I meant what I said earlier. I don’t hang around if I’m not welcome.”

Though his words only confirmed what I had already suspected, it saddened me to hear it. “I really am sorry for that,” I said, earnestly. “But surely staying a day or two to heal would have been better, and safer, than taking off? You were in so much pain that you needed my help to take off your own armour. If you had come across a bear, or even a monster of some sort…”

“I managed to put my armour back on, though, didn’t I?” Eskel pointed out with a brief smile. He shrugged, unruffled by my question. “You saw the wound today – three days old, but if you didn’t already know that, what would you guess? Three weeks? You’ve seen for yourself, now, that witchers really do heal as fast as all the stories say. So I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that in the five hours I slept, I healed enough to be able to strap on my swords and armor, and then saddle and mount Scorpion. Lifting that saddle onto his back was actually the hardest part – the rest was easy, by comparison.”

I felt vaguely foolish, then; of course Eskel knew his body, his own abilities, better than anyone else. He would not have ridden off had he not been capable of looking after himself.

I sighed. “I’m sorry, Eskel,” I said, again. “For… for being afraid of you. I’ve heard stories about soldiers or rangers who think they can use their swords to take whatever they want… But you were only ever calm and respectful, and never gave me reason to fear you. I feel terrible that you thought you couldn’t stay even one night.” I looked at him, willing him to see the truth to my words in my face.

“It’s okay.” He smiled at me, though his eyes were tinged with sadness. “When you look the way I do, you learn not to take it personally. After all, you’re right – feeling afraid of scarred strangers with swords is actually the smart response.”

Eskel paused, then smiled again; just the barest tug of his lips, but this time it touched his eyes. “But I’m glad you changed your mind.”

\---

Though the conversation had been necessary, it left the mood in my cottage somber and serious. I cast around for another topic, as I didn’t want to end on that note: once Eskel left on the morrow, there was a good chance I would never see him again.

Unexpectedly, it was the witcher who came to the rescue.

“You know, my fearsome appearance has actually come in handy in some pretty unusual ways,” he said, a wry expression on his face as he refilled his mug from the half-empty bottle of stout.

“Oh? Such as?” I looked at him, intrigued, taking back the bottle and topping up my own mug.

“Well, sometimes the trouble I’m hired to deal with turns out to be human in origin,” Eskel said. He took a sip before continuing, his eyes fixed on the fire as he reminisced. “On more than one occasion, the offender has broken down and just confessed everything before I even have to do the hard work of figuring out who they are.”

I snorted. “Smart. I wouldn’t want to try my luck against a witcher, either.”

Eskel glanced at me, a smile hovering around his face. “It’s turned up some pretty unexpected perpetrators, too. There was a wealthy widow in Novigrad some years ago who hired me to deal with a nasty wraith that had moved into her attic… when I got there, her eight- and nine-year-old sons took one look at me, burst into tears on the spot and admitted they had been playing up there after bedtime, and had made up the whole story as an excuse for the noise and mess.”

I chuckled, easily able to picture the scene. “Sounds like something a lot of small boys I’ve known would do.”

Eskel smiled. “Oh, sure, I remember – I was just as bad, once. The woman was absolutely _furious_ at having been duped by her own sons, though it worked out pretty well for me when she-” He broke off abruptly, and though I wasn’t sure in the dim light, I thought he seemed faintly… embarrassed? “She… she still paid me for the contract,” he finished, lamely.

I almost choked on my drink when I realised what his words implied, then burst into laughter. The witcher’s accidental confession was completely unexpected, particularly given his reserved nature. “Oh, I see,” I sniggered, gasping for air. “She showed you her gratitude another way, right?”

“Ah. Well.” Eskel shifted awkwardly, then gave in with a rueful laugh. “I guess I didn’t think that story through before I started telling it.”

I shook my head, still chuckling. “Oh, don’t worry – it’s not as if I’m horrified to discover there were others before me.” I grinned mischievously at the witcher. “Though I must say, it _is_ the first time someone’s tried to flirt with me by talking about their past lovers.”

Eskel’s mouth twitched in a suppressed smile, then his eyes narrowed as he considered me. “Righto,” he said, decisively, then in one swift movement he stood and pulled his shirt over his head, and all of a sudden my heart quickened and a warm anticipation tingled through my limbs, settling in the pit of my stomach.

He closed the distance between us with two quick strides, looming over me, tall and broad-shouldered. The flickering firelight highlighted the contours of muscle in his chest and shoulders, and the overlying tapestry of scars on his bare skin.

His scarred cheek was a tangle of dark lines as he leant down, hands on the back of my chair, mouth to my ear.

“Let me show you just how much you are the only thing in my head right now,” he said, in a low voice that thrilled me, travelling straight to my knickers. He pressed his lips to my neck. I inhaled sharply and leaned into the kiss, eyes fluttering closed, my hands reaching for his shoulders.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” I breathed, as desire radiated through my veins.

With one arm wrapped around my shoulders, another under my knees, Eskel picked me up, the movement as fast and easy as if I weighted nothing; then, before I could even process his nearness, or the way his chest felt pressed against my side, he had deposited me in the middle of the bed.

He parted my knees with a firm hand and knelt between them, then leant forward, supporting his weight on his elbows. I reached for his shoulders and tried to pull him down to me, wanting to feel the length of his body pressed against mine, skin on skin. Eskel resisted for a moment, his amber eyes glinting in the dim light, then, finally, he lowered his mouth to mine.

He kissed me deliberately, unhurriedly, his mouth soft and warm. The slow pace somehow turned my veins to fire, and melted my spine into the bed. He nipped my bottom lip, and I sighed, my lips parting under his. Then his tongue found mine, hungry and insistent, and though he did not increase his pace, it left me feeling dizzy and light-headed.

When he finally broke the kiss and pulled back, I found myself unable to muster any coherent words. His face hovered above mine, and I drank in the sight, trying to memorise the lines, the creases, so that he would not become a hazy memory a year from now.

The lines around his eyes and mouth hinted at his hard life, though the perpetual crease between his heavy brows had temporarily faded. It returned as I reached up to his scarred cheek, and though he did not pull away from my touch, he tensed above me; his eyes spoke a warning as I traced the dark lines, rough under my hand, and I knew not to ask where they had come from. There was the faintest graze of stubble under my fingertips, and I briefly wondered how often he shaved.

He relaxed when my hand left his cheek, following the line of his broad jaw, and his lips parted slightly. A finger touched the notch in his top lip; my thumb drew across the full bottom lip that I had just been kissing, and it was as soft under my fingers as to my own mouth. The touch reminded me that I wanted to feel his mouth against mine again, and I ran my fingers into his dark hair and pulled him down to me again.

The kiss was even better than the last one. His mouth moved surely, confidently; his tongue tangled with mine, hot and wet, ardent and yet unhurried. My mouth had never been ravished so slowly before, or with so much care, and I felt my body respond with a slow burn that was somehow all the more intense. A sound escaped me, somewhere between a sigh and a moan, and Eskel pulled back with a chuckle deep in his throat.

He shifted above me, supporting his weight on one arm, the other roaming over my waist, up to my chest, then tugging firmly at the laces at the front of my dress.

Working one-handed, he dealt with the laces quickly, and pulled the bodice open; I sat up and helped him pull the dress over my head. Such is the nature of a dress: I went from fully clothed, to wearing only a small pair of knickers in a moment. My skin prickled with small goosebumps, partly from the sudden exposure, but mostly in anticipation as the witcher drank in my near-naked form, a feral gleam in his eyes.

He pushed at my shoulder, gently, and as I lay down again, I ran my hands across his stomach and over his waist, feeling the smooth skin, broken by scars and a soft dusting of hairs across his stomach. His muscles were solid beneath my fingers.

Moving so that he was supporting his weight above me again, he let me pull his hips down to mine, a noticeable bulge in his breeches trapped between us. Feeling the evidence of his desire, straining against the confinement of his breeches, sent a thrill through me. I rocked my hips up against his, and Eskel growled, low in his throat, capturing my lips in a searing kiss, his tongue plundering my mouth.

I ran a hand down the front of his breeches, reaching for their laces, but he pulled his hips back, frustratingly. “Not so fast,” he said, voice husky, then dropped his head to my neck, and kissed his way down my throat to my chest. He paused there for a moment, kissing my breasts, palming one in his large hand; he took the other nipple into his mouth and sucked it, grazing his teeth against it in a way that left me panting and arching my back into his mouth.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, lips moving softly against my skin, then continued kissing his way down my stomach. My breath hitched in my throat as I realised what his destination was. I had only been kissed down there once before, rather unenthusiastically, and it had not ended well, with the boy – a fellow student during my time at Oxenfurt – grimacing and complaining about the taste.

Eskel hooked his fingers through the waistband of my knickers and drew them softly down; I lifted my hips and let him pull them from my legs. I looked down at him, kneeling between my bent legs, hands gently pushing my thighs apart, lips trailing kisses from my knee up the inside of my thigh.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said, feeling suddenly exposed, shy.

“I want to,” he said, his breath warm, tickling the inside of my thigh. He placed another kiss, and another, closer and closer to where heat emanated from between my legs, and to where I knew I was dripping wet.

He paused and looked up at me then, his eyes gleaming in the reflected light of the fire. “But only if you want me to,” he said, eyes steady, fixed on mine. “Do you?”

I bit my lip, considered for a moment, then nodded.

His lips tugged in the barest smile. “Good, because you smell absolutely _amazing_ ,” he growled, then dropped his head and licked straight up from my opening to my clit.

I gasped and let my head fall back to the pillows, my eyes fluttering closed. He licked up and down, through the folds of skin, licking the wetness that had gathered there, then focused on my clit, sucking and licking it with his talented tongue. His hands were on the inside of my legs, holding my thighs apart.

“Mhmm,” I sighed, savouring the pleasure that started to spiral inside me. One hand began to move up my thigh; his fingers traced upwards, circling, teasing, before he slipped a finger inside. He pulled it out, then pumped it gently a few times before adding another finger. “Mhmm,” I sighed again, more loudly, as his fingers moved inside me. All the while he continued to pay attention to my clit, with broad strokes and circles of his tongue; the sensations curled and writhed, electric and alive inside my gut.

I reached for his head between my legs, lacing my fingers into his hair, the feeling somehow serving to anchor me to my body, and Eskel took that as a sign that he was doing well, and started to increase the pace of his minstrations. Then he turned his hand inside me, curled his fingers, searching for that sensitive spot. When he found it, it set every nerve on fire with a dull heat, and I moaned; he increased the pace of his tongue, flicking it back and forth over the little nub. The spiral tightened and tightened, ascending in an ever-narrowing coil; my world contracted to the circles of the witcher’s tongue, to the way his fingers curled inside me; and then, suddenly, as it always is, the spiral could tighten no further and I fell, dizzy, twirling, like a leaf caught in a trapped breeze. Dimly I realised that I had tightened my thighs around the witcher’s head; my back was arched and my hand in his hair held him to me. Slowly, I relaxed back into my body, awareness returning to my limbs with a soft tingle that still felt so, so good.

I breathed in, then out, and relaxed my grip on Eskel’s hair, my thighs falling open again. “Wow,” I mustered, raising myself on an elbow to look down at the witcher, my head still spinning. His dark head was still lowered between my thighs, his hair mussed where I had gripped it; he licked gently one more time across my sensitive nub, and a shudder ran through me, the stimulation almost too much, then turning his head, he kissed my thigh a final time and raised his head to look at me. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand; then, his scarred lip lifting in a satisfied smirk, he sat back on his knees. I sat up, my head still spinning, my thoughts scrambled, knowing only that I wanted him, wanted to _fuck_ him, more than I had ever wanted anyone before.

I reached for his shoulders, to pull him towards me again; he came willingly, his amber eyes dark, intense, and kissed me, his mouth hot and soft and wet, and tasting of me. He leaned forward, moving as if to push me back onto the bed again, but I turned, pushed at his shoulders until he lay back on the bed. I propped myself up on one arm and looked down at him for a moment, then kissed his broad nose, his cheeks, then his lips. One arm wrapped around my waist, the other cupped my cheek as we kissed, slowly again, and I – somehow, incredibly – was _still_ coming down from my high, the last tendrils of pleasure still tingling, warming my body.

Then, finally, my head began to clear, and I felt anchored again, to my body, to the here and now. I pulled back, grinned down at Eskel, who was watching my face with a smug, satisfied gleam in his eyes.

“That was incredible,” I said. I glanced down his body; the bulge in his breeches was still there, and couldn’t have been comfortable. “Let me return the favour.”

I thought I caught a glimpse of surprise in his eyes – he had not been expecting me to reciprocate – but then the witcher merely smirked and settled back on the bed in anticipation.

I kissed my way down his broad chest, taking my time to trace my tongue along his scars, trailing my fingers down his sides. I paused over his stomach, kissed the trail of hair disappearing into his breeches even as I unlaced them. He raised his hips to let me tug off his breeches, his thick cock bobbing lightly as I freed it from its constraint, then came to rest curving up towards his stomach as I moved back to kneel between his legs.

I took the opportunity to drink in the sight in front of me. The witcher stretched out on my bed: one arm pillowed under his head, bicep bulging, looking down at me from beneath lids heavy with anticipation; one hand resting lightly on his stomach, muscles outlined and visible, even beneath the smattering of coarse dark hairs. The muscles on his hips defined a sharp V, pointing down to his proud cock, rising from a tangle of dark curls, which was proportioned to fit with the rest of his broad-shouldered, well-muscled frame. Though I had only just tumbled down from the highest peak of pleasure, desire stirred deep in my stomach at the sight, and I felt wetness begin to gather between my legs again.

I resumed kissing down from Eskel’s navel, trailed my lips down, taking my time, my hands on the inside of his thighs, fingers moving slowly inwards. Finally, I lifted my head, glanced up at the witcher from beneath my lashes with the most wicked smile I could summon, and licked along his cock, from the base to the tip, pleased to hear his sharp intake of breath.

Using a hand to manoeuvre his cock, I licked up along each side, wetting it as much as I could, then wrapped my fingers around it near the base, and swirled my head around the tip before – finally – taking it into my mouth. I bobbed my head down as far as I could, and sucked lightly as I pulled back, following my head with my hand. At the top I swirled my tongue around the tip again, tracing the groove on its underside where I knew he would be most sensitive.

Eskel expelled the breath he had been holding in a deep rush. “Fuck, that’s good,” he muttered, and glancing up, I saw that he had tightened his hand, fingers digging into his stomach. Pleased, I went to work in earnest, continuing in the same fashion, sucking my cheeks in with each upstroke, and swirling my tongue around the tip. After a moment he placed a hand on my head, resting it rather than guiding my movements, and I glanced up again to see that he was still watching me, eyes hooded and intense.

I gathered my courage and reached my other hand up to cup his balls, carefully massaging and squeezing them. At this, he breathed in sharply, then sighed, humming low in his throat.

_So he likes that,_ I thought with satisfaction, and increased my pace, sucking as hard as I could. His fingers tangled in my hair, and even without the enhanced senses of a witcher, I could hear his breathing speed up. After a moment, he lifted his hand, encouraging me to stop, and I raised my head to look at him. Desire was written clearly across his scarred face, his eyes half-closed and his lips parted.

“Better stop now… If you keep going, you’ll finish me off,” he said. His chest rose and fell with each fast breath.

I grinned. “That’s the idea,” I said, stroking his cock with my hand, running my tongue over the tip again. It twitched, and the witcher inhaled, sharply.

“Fuck… much as I would like that, Charlotte, witcher stamina is not endless…”

I smirked, smug at the effect I had clearly had on the scarred witcher, but I let go and trailed my fingers upwards over his stomach. Though I would have gladly watched him come undone under my hands and mouth, touching him had stoked the warmth in my belly, and I wanted to feel him inside me again.

I knew, without needing to reach a hand between my legs to check, that I was wet and ready. The witcher reached for my waist as I straddled his hips, his cock trapped underneath me, with desire in his half-lidded eyes.

Eskel pulled my mouth down to his with a hand on the back of my neck, and kissed me fervently, hungrily, as I rocked my hips, feeling him slide through the wetness between my legs. Then his hand on my hip raised me up, the other hand reaching between us until I felt his cock nudging at my entrance, and I sank down onto his length for the second time that day, savouring the feeling as he slid home. I let out a long breath I hadn’t realised I was holding.

I paused there for a moment, letting my body readjust to his girth, and then, supporting my weight with my hands on his chest, started to move on top of him, moving carefully as I was still a little tender. His hands stroked down my back, then ran over my arse, before settling on my hips; his amber eyes were fixed, hungrily, to where our hips were joined. Within a few strokes the lingering soreness turned into a sweet ache, each stroke touching _something_ that sent a blaze of heat up my spine, adding a log to the fire that already smouldered inside me.

Then his hands on my hips stilled, holding me to him, resisting my movement, and I looked down at him, confused. That couldn’t be it _already_ , he didn’t even -

Eskel’s mouth twitched in a lopsided smile as he took in my confused expression. “You did all the work last time,” he said. “Seems hardly fair… I think it’s my turn now.”

A hand ran up my back and tugged me down to him. Behind me, I felt him shift his legs, one hand guiding my thigh; then - I am still not sure exactly how he did it - he flipped us over, so that I was on my back and he was above me, supporting himself on his elbows. He shifted his weight slightly, and the movement of his hips suddenly reminded me that he was still buried inside me; he had somehow managed it all without pulling out.

The surprise must have been clear on my face, because he grinned, smug, his scarred lip lifting. He pulled his hips back, withdrawing almost the whole way, then slid into me again, slowly, as he bent his head to kiss me. The movement of his soft warm lips, the heat radiating from his body above mine, the way he touched _that spot_ inside me, each sent a stab of fire into my guts and I gasped, arching up underneath him, my chest pressing into his.

Eskel chuckled into my mouth. “Much better… I like being on top,” he murmured. I ran my hands over his torso, feeling the hard muscles in his arms, his shoulders, his back, beneath a tapestry of smooth skin and scars. My fingers traced over a thick raised welt on his back, warm to the touch, and I realised, absent-mindedly, that I had found the wound I had stitched. Then he thrust into me again, the stab of pleasure eliciting another breathy gasp, and driving all thoughts of scars and mutant healing from my mind.

The witcher set a steady pace, even and unhurried, pulling out almost completely before sinking into me again. He kissed me languorously, and there was something almost tender in the slow movement of his lips, in the way his tongue tangled with mine. The movement of his hips was torturous, maddening, drawing soft moans and sighs from my throat with each thrust, as the fire in my belly grew to a warm blaze.

His head dropped to my neck, planting soft open-mouthed kisses at the join with my shoulder, his breath warm on my skin. The slow pace was delightful and maddening and wonderful and entirely not enough; my hands gripped his arse and pulled him towards me with each thrust, encouraging him to move faster, deeper.

Instead, he paused for a moment, buried deep inside me, as he dragged his lips back to mine and kissed me, hungry and eager. Then he pulled back, and with his hands on my ankles he guided one leg, then the other, over his shoulders. He looked down at me, his eyes hooded, from between my legs, then leant forward onto his arms again and started to move, faster, purposeful.

I gasped as pleasure coursed through me. With my legs on his shoulders, he reached much deeper inside me, and each thrust was angled _just so_ to hit every nerve and sensitive spot along the way as he slid home. My hands gripped his shoulders and my head fell back, eyes fluttering closed, as I let the sensations wash over me, each warm wave breaking over me and sending me ever closer to that distant shore.

The witcher continued to move, ever faster, relentless. His breathing sped up, and a groan escaped him; he was approaching the precipice of his own pleasure, too. I was so close, so close, all I needed was –

I reached down, hand going straight to the little nub between my legs. The swollen bundle of nerves was sensitive, and each circle of my fingers increased the height and the strength of each wave of pleasure, coming closer together now, faster, faster, higher. The witcher was driving into me now, his thrusts strong and hard, his eyes dark, hooded, drinking in my face and my body pinned beneath him. Then he thrust into me again; my fingers flicked over the sensitive bud again; and I cried out as I crested the wave and it came crashing down all around me, foaming white behind my closed eyelids, my back arching up towards the witcher, my fingers digging into his shoulder. I was floating, no, drowning in the receding wave, as it carried me along in its course, and it felt oh so good.

I was faintly aware that Eskel was still moving over me, breathing hard now; his thrusts were short, fast, irregular, and then he, too, fell off the edge, and let the wave wash him away. He had been so quiet, all through his building pleasure; but now he groaned, as he came undone.

His movements slowed, then stopped, though I could still hear him breathing hard. I let the soft waves of pleasure rock me, and carry me to the shore. Finally, I opened my eyes, looking up at the witcher, still buried deep inside me. Dark tendrils of hair hung over his eyes and a sheen of sweat was over his face and chest. Up close, his gaze was more feline than ever, the vertical pupils clearly outlined against the amber irises.

“Sounded like you enjoyed that,” he said, humour evident in the creased corners of his eyes.

I smiled. “Sounded like you did, too.” I reached up to his shoulders and he bent down, willingly, and kissed me, something tender in the slow movement of his soft lips. Finally, he pulled back and lay next to me on the bed, his head pillowed on his arm.

I rose, and took two strips of cloth, wet them with a little water from the bucket in the corner. I passed him one, and used the other to clean myself up, then cleared away our mugs and piles of clothes. The fire had long since died to embers. The red glow and the light of the waning moon shining through the window were enough light for me to move with confidence in my own cabin, though doubtlessly he could see better than I. I felt his eyes follow me as I moved around in the darkened cabin.

I left most of the clean-up for the morrow, and crawled gratefully back into my bed. Eskel had turned on his side to face me, so I shuffled back until I could feel the warmth of his chest on my back, letting him pull my body against his, and curled my body into the gaps left by his.

Sleep came for me somewhere between the weight of his arm on my waist, and the gentle movement of air on the back of my neck.               


	4. Departing

I woke slowly, trying to hold on to the remnants of my dream. There had been a man… heavily scarred, and strong… using his fingers and his mouth to please me. Pleasure built, and then just as he knelt between my legs, leant forwards until his body hovered above mine, the dream faded, slipping through my mind like water through a sieve. I was left feeling rather aroused, though still drowsy and half-asleep.

It’s not often that I dream of such encounters, and I basked in the feeling for a moment – and then Eskel stirred behind me and I was suddenly aware of the weight of his arm draped over my waist, the warmth of his body against my back. The events of the previous evening flooded back into my mind and I smiled to myself as I dozed, knowing the source of my dream.

Some time later, Eskel stirred behind me again, and he gently withdrew his arm, his weight shifting in the bed as if he were about to get up.

“Mmm… don’t go, yet,” I said, drowsy, half-turning towards him.

“Thought you were still snoozing.” His voice was rough from sleep, though he rolled back towards me. Warm lips placed a kiss on my shoulder, and his hand traveled down my side, then settled on my hip.

As he nestled back against my body, I suddenly became aware of him, half-hard where our hips were pressed together. Still aroused from the dream I had had earlier, I shifted as if trying to make myself more comfortable, innocently pressing back against him, and felt a definite twitch in response.

I smiled to myself, trying to decide the best way to initiate a repeat of last night’s activities. Perhaps if I…

Eskel squeezed my hip, his fingers starting to trace circles that sent a wave of heat up my spine. I felt rather than heard him chuckle into the back of my neck. “So that’s how it is,” he said, dispelling any impression that my purpose had escaped his notice.

_Well_ , I thought, _I suppose that’s one way of getting things started. Though I would have preferred to…_

Nope. I quickly decided this was just fine when his hand trailed across my stomach and down to the soft curls between my legs. I moved my top leg back a little, giving him access, and he traced his thumb over the little nub, then ran a finger through my folds.

“Mhmm,” I sighed.

Eskel drew in a sharp breath. “Fuck. How is it you’re already so wet,” he breathed. He dipped a finger inside me, and his cock twitched against my arse again, stronger this time.

“I had a dream,” I said. I reached behind me and wrapped my hand around his cock, now fully hard, and stroked it once, twice. “About you…”

Eskel’s finger curled inside me, and I let out an involuntary moan. “Fuck,” he said again, lust clouding his voice, turning it into a growl.

The witcher needed no second invitation. It was clear that I wanted what he wanted. He retracted his hand and slipped it between us to position himself at my opening, then, slowly, pushed into me. He was hot and hard and slid in with ease, the feeling sending a shiver up my spine.

Eskel groaned softly, pressed his lips to my shoulder again. His hand travelled to my knee, guiding my leg back until it was draped over his thigh. He pulled most of the way out, then pushed back in, still moving slowly, his fingers digging into my hip. Somehow, he always managed to touch the most sensitive places inside me, and I moaned.

I turned my head towards my shoulder, wanting to see him. Eskel had propped himself up on his arm, and looked down at me, his eyes a dark amber, his lips slightly parted. The scar that twisted half his face was black in the dim light. His gaze was feline, dangerous, and it sent another thrill through me.

He couldn’t reach my mouth from this angle, but his head dropped to place hot kisses along my jawline, my neck, then gently nipped my earlobe. All the while, he continued to move, in and out, in and out, slowly. His hand left my hip and travelled down my stomach again, quickly finding my clit. Another moan escaped me as his fingers started to trace small circles and pleasure began to build in earnest.

He was moving purposefully behind me now, thrusting a little faster, though I knew it would be difficult for him to build up much speed in this position, on his side. Eskel must have had the same thought, because after a moment he lifted his hand from my thighs, reached for his pillow, then placed it in front of my stomach.

“Roll over,” he growled into my ear, then nipped my earlobe again, and pulled out.

I bunched the pillow up and rolled onto it, bringing my knees up under my hips, and sank my head down onto my arms. The witcher knelt behind me and ran his hands over the curve of my arse, squeezing the soft flesh.

“So gorgeous,” he said, voice low, rough, dripping with desire. A hand left me to line himself up, and then both hands were digging into my hips, and he sank into me again from behind, in one swift movement.

This time I was the one who swore. “Fuck,” I said, closing my eyes, as he slid deep inside me, much deeper than the previous position had allowed.

Eskel stilled, traced one hand up my back. “You alright?” he asked, concern in his voice. “Too much?”

I opened my eyes, tried to glare at him over my shoulder, though it was difficult to muster words with him deep inside me like this. “Don’t stop,” I said, then moaned, as his scarred face twisted in a lopsided grin, and he pulled out and slid back inside me. He picked up speed quickly, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me back against him as he thrust into me. One hand left my hip and moved underneath me, his fingers stroking my clit again.

“Unnnngh,” I said, eyes fluttering closed. No, wait. That wasn’t it. What had I meant to say? “That feels amazing.” That was more like it.

“Mhmmm.” Eskel’s voice was deep, rough. “You feel amazing.” His fingers continued moving, the pleasure building, building, building. I could feel the cliff approaching, just ahead of me.

“I’m close,” I managed to say. I just needed… a bit more…

Eskel thrust into me again, and there it was, he hit that place inside me, and I crested that last peak, then tumbled over the edge. My hands tightened on the sheets, and Eskel continued to thrust as I moaned out my release, his fingers still stroking my clit, seeing me over the edge, then slowing his movements as I came back down.

He leant forward, kissed the back of my neck. His chest was hot and damp against my back. “Good?” he asked into my ear, then planted hot kisses along my shoulder.

“Mhmm,” I agreed, then wriggled back against him. I knew he hadn’t found his own release yet. “You can keep going now.”

“Good,” Eskel said into my ear again, voice rough, then straightened up, gripped my hips, and started to move into me again. Slowly at first, he moved steadily, with long, deep strokes. One hand left my hip to trace along my spine, then across my shoulder and down my side, before coming to rest on my lower back, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

I turned my head to look at him over my shoulder again. He was beautiful, in the soft grey light filtering through the curtains: a faint sheen of sweat across his broad shoulders, his amber eyes hooded, intense, his lips slightly parted. Eskel met my eyes, and that lopsided smile tugged at his scarred face again.

“Morning,” he said, and leant forward and kissed the spot where my jaw joined my neck, his lips soft and warm. I turned my head further, trying to reach his mouth, and our lips brushed briefly before Eskel pulled back and my eyes fluttered closed again. Pleasure was starting to build again inside me, up a much gentler, longer slope this time. I felt I might never reach the peak, but that was fine by me.

“Mhmmm,” I sighed, and Eskel squeezed my hip. His other hand was trailing along my spine again, and then traced the curve of my arse; he gripped one of my cheeks and kneaded it for a moment, all the while continuing to thrust. Then he began speeding up in earnest.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he ground out, but it wasn’t: the strength of each thrust sent my hips forward, and I bucked back against him in response, met him halfway. I moaned, reached a hand down to where we were joined, and started to rub.

Eskel was almost slamming his hips into mine, and I could hear his breathing grow ragged, his fingers digging into my hip again, almost painfully, as he chased his own pleasure. Then he shifted his weight above me, ever so slightly, and suddenly each thrust was hitting that most sensitive spot. The world around me shrank to nothing more than pure sensation, and I was climbing towards that peak ten, twenty, a hundred paces at a time; then, almost before I realised it, my climax was upon me, and I moaned, burying my face into the bed.

This time, Eskel didn’t slow as I came; he kept up his pace, unrelenting, his hips slamming into my arse with each thrust. The continued stimulation of that sensitive spot inside me prolonged my high, beyond anything I had ever felt; I floated, somewhere above the ground, pleasure mingling with protestations of soreness from my overstimulated body.

Then, finally, his movements slowed; he fell forwards onto his arms, his chest damp with his exertions where it pressed into my back. With a low groan, he drove into me in one, two more erratic, shallow thrusts, and I felt his length pulse inside me as he came.

He rested his head on my shoulder, wrapped one arm around my stomach, kissed the side of my neck. His damp chest pressed into my back; I could feel his pounding heartbeat, his breathing heavy next to my ear.

“Fuck, Charlotte,” he said, finally, as his heart slowed, already approaching its usual steady pace, a fraction of my own. He planted another kiss onto my neck. “That was incredible.”

“Mhmmm,” I assented, dreamily, face still pressed into the bedsheets, savouring the satiation and contentment that filled me.

He stayed there a few more moments, his hands stroking my back, then gently withdrew and lay on his back next to me. I rolled to my side, propped myself up on an arm over his shoulder, and grinned down at the witcher, ignoring the wetness dribbling out from between my legs. A content smile played on his lips, begging to be kissed; so I did, enjoying the feel of his soft lips moving under mine.

I pulled back, looked down at him again. Sunlight slanted through the window, catching his shoulder, lighting the smooth tanned skin. It had only been a night, but he already felt as familiar to me as my own body; I would miss his quiet presence, once gone. “Is it really going to be a year or more until you come back again?“

Eskel raised an eyebrow, his eyes searching mine. I mustered a smile to allay the concern in his eyes. “This has been fun,” I added.

Eskel sighed. “The war has ravaged lands to the south, all the way to the border with Nilfgaard. Monsters feast on the death and destruction.” He turned his head, looked out the small window facing down into the valley, bright sunlight pouring from above. “I’m headed that way now, and was thinking to winter a year or two there. I’ll be back this way eventually – but I can’t promise anything.”

I mulled this over for a moment. Of course I understood the practicalities from his perspective: he was a witcher, and as of three days ago, this valley no longer had any monsters for him to hunt. There was no reason for him to stay. I had patients to visit and herbs to tend to, anyway; and I wasn’t looking for a man in that sense, especially not one who would be around to help with the harvest, or to settle into the village and have a family with. But I had enjoyed his company, and the sex had been something else.

“Well, whenever you are back in Torvale – come back and visit me,” I said.

He looked back at me and smiled that lopsided smile of his, the corners of his eyes creasing. “Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well thanks for reading to the end, y'all! This is the first fic I've ever posted, and it was pretty fun to write, so if you enjoyed it please leave kudos and comments. It might even motivate me to finish and post one of the other half-dozen or so stories that I've started...


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